


Scar the armada

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Boring, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, No Dialogue, SO, Sickfic, Vomiting, artistic, at least I think so, but i wrote it, but nice descriptions, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 18:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Spencer suffers in silence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from tumblr. find me @builder051
> 
> I was listening to Coheed and Cambria and feeling super emo, so this is what happened. It was kind of a challenge to myself to see what I could do:
> 
> 1\. tell the same story 3 times, yet address 3 separate prompts  
> 2\. do under 500 words per shot  
> 3\. no dialogue  
> 4\. take the imagery and beautiful lines (about feeling sick) to the max

He doesn’t know why he came to work today. 

 

That’s a lie.  He knows exactly why he came to work today.  The call came in at four minutes past six this morning, and it was clear the team needed to be operating on all cylinders.  Stopping a spree killer is more important than his headache. 

 

But by the time Hitch calls them into the briefing room, the nagging throb in Spencer’s temples has become something else.  The dull carpet heaves like the deck of a ship, threatening to trip him as he leaves his desk. 

 

The lights are dim and the conference table is cool on Spencer’s clammy palms.  He only has a moment of relief, though.  Garcia points a remote at the projector and photos flash onto the wall.  They’re as offensive in their brightness as they are in their content. 

 

Spencer squints at the close-up pictures of the victim’s stab wounds, and he wonders if they felt anything like the knife that’s currently sawing through his skull.  He wishes the migraine would go ahead and decapitate him.  The image on the screen changes to show the sprawled body, and he feels guilty for the thought.

 

Hotch is talking, but it’s all buzz.  Spencer shuts his eyes.  If he blocks out the visual, maybe he’ll be able to hear better.  This is important.  He tucks his hair behind his ear. 

 

The world wobbles as if Spencer’s closing eyelids have severed the line holding him steady in time and space.  Heat starts deep in his abdomen and spreads upward.  Prickling sweat breaks out over the back of his neck.  The sensation continues upward, wrapping around his jaw.  Spit flows down the slope of his tongue.

 

Spencer swallows and takes a breath.  It’s shallower than he means it to be, but if he lets his ribcage expand, he’ll start a chain reaction.  The fuse is already lit, and it’s only a matter of time before something explodes.  He wonders if it will be his head or his stomach first. 

 

Sourness leaches up his throat, and Spencer pushes his chair away from the table.  The motion doesn’t help.  Nor do the team’s concerned expressions as they turn en mass to look at him.  He can’t think about it, though.  Egress is the word of the moment.

 

Spencer stands, praying he can at least get out of the room before he vomits.  The whole room dissolves into quivering stars as he takes a stumbling step and passes out instead.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Even though it’s overcast, the scene is too bright.  The sky is practically white with clouds, and the pavement is the same color.  At least up to the place where the victim’s blood stains it a dark brownish red.  The stark pallor hurts Spencer’s eyes, and the shield of his sunglasses does nothing to help. 

 

The local police force stands by like a flock of buzzards, waiting to descend on the victim and engulf her in measuring tools and body bags.  Emily squats a few feet from the corpse and points to something.  Tara looks over her shoulder and nods.  Spencer isn’t sure if she’s moving in slow motion or if something’s off in his perception.

 

The throb behind his sinuses makes it difficult to focus.  His body is full of cement and decidedly top-heavy.  He tilts his ear toward his shoulder experimentally, and something triggers something else that makes his stomach slosh. 

 

The breeze gusts, and a piece of trash scrapes along the sidewalk.  The sound is only a few degrees from nails on a chalkboard, and Spencer winces involuntarily.  He blinks at the crumpled newspaper and wonders if he’ll be able to straighten back up if he bends down to grab it.  His head is swimming  as he stands still, so he guesses probably not. 

 

Emily beckons to him.  She’s found something.  The development should light a fire in Spencer’s chest.  Putting two and two together is his specialty.  But today the only burn he feels is acid building at the back of his throat. 

 

He moves up behind his fellow agents and squints down, directing his gaze to follow the line of Emily’s outstretched hand.  His watering eyes make it all a blur, though, and Spencer feels like he’s looking through spectacles with the wrong prescription.  He blinks a couple times and only succeeds in making tears fall. 

 

He hurriedly wipes his sleeve under the lenses of his shades.  An influx of anxiety sends his heart racing, and Spencer takes a measured breath to steady himself.  His knees feel like the bones have all vanished, leaving a mess of gelatinous joint fluid that’s not enough to hold him upright.  If he falls this close to the body, he’ll contaminate the scene.  Though with the churn in his stomach, he might end up contaminating it anyway.

 

Emily looks up at him, and her expression turns from interest to concern.  Spencer shifts directions, angling his shoulders away from the scene before him.  Nausea rises rapidly, and his attempt to swallow it is fruitless.  Tara is a shadow in his blurry peripheral vision, reaching for him.  Spencer feels her hand close around his arm as he blacks out.


	3. Chapter 3

The only good thing about the return flight from Utah to Quantico is that it’s direct.  The cloudy weather had remained even after solving the case provided a much-needed lift in mood, and beads of semi-frozen precipitation batter the jet’s windows.  Spencer wonders if it will rain all the way back to the east coast. 

 

The team knows he doesn’t feel well, and they largely leave him alone.  He’s curled by himself on one of the couch-wide seats, his jacket wadded between his head and the wall.  Spencer breathes into the fabric, smelling a mixture of laundry detergent and his own musk.  He wishes he felt more comforted. 

 

Despite the brewing storm, the plane moves smoothly.  Spencer can almost convince himself he’s on the sofa in his living room.  He keeps his guard up, though, waiting for a burst of turbulence to prove otherwise. 

 

He’s already vomited, but nausea still wires his jaw.  The pressure of his gritted teeth aches all the way up behind his forehead, but at least the pain is predictable.  The migraine remains nebulous, sending dull blades into skull at random.  Sometimes the stabs miss the bone and stick hard in his eyes and mouth the gaps above his sternum.

 

Spencer adjusts in his seat, and he sees JJ’s blurry outline pulling a bottle of water from the mini fridge.  She must sense him stirring, and she turns, silently offering him a beverage.  Spencer shakes his head, then closes his eyes before uncomfortably bright glitter can dissolve his visual field. 

 

A small, cool hand brushes his hair out of his eyes and lingers on his forehead.  He doesn’t have a fever, though, and JJ gives his shoulder a comforting pat.  Spencer exhales to let her know he appreciates it.  She breathes it back in to tell him she knows.

 

Spencer measures the passing of time as the buildup of pressure in his ears.  The more he swallows, the sicker he feels, and eventually the saliva stops going down.  It doesn’t do much to burst the bubbles behind his eardrums either.  He’s empty enough that it probably won’t matter if he gags right there in the seat, but modesty somehow becomes a priority, and Spencer drags his cheek out of the folds of his rumpled blazer.

 

He puts weight on his feet before he stands up.  Supporting himself doesn’t seem like a promising possibility, but he keeps going anyway.  He feels like he’s walking on stilts even though he’s still hunched over.  Spencer’s surprised his head’s not scraping the ceiling.  Vertigo swirls in his head and his gut, and he launches toward the bathroom.  He gets a couple uneven strides down the aisle before his knees give way and his vision fades out.

 


End file.
